My Blood Runs Red Too
by huffle-bibin
Summary: My blood runs red too." "What?" he askes, confused. Looking at the wall she says,“When I cry, I’m in pain. I cry tears, same as you. When I feel or taste or smell or look at somethin’, I feel or taste or smell or look same as you'se..." Rating just incase


**A/N We're studying slavery in school. This is where the idea came from. The prejudices and the cruelty. I wondered how someone would deal if they were alone, if they didn't have people willing to protect them or to get close to them. This also explains why Spot is distant and guarded (well, its one scenario) Her name refers to her love of brownies, not the color of her skin. And if anything doesn't make sense, its 3:58 am. I haven't slept in almost 24 hours. and I don't own Spot, or Newsies. **

The day dawned bright and cold. The sane residents of New York were still tucked in their warm beds and weren't planing on getting out anytime soon. The working class were just leaving their homes, kissing their wives on the cheek and running to get to the warm buildings that they worked in. The poor in the alleys were doing what they did all night- namely shiver and beg for food or money. The newsies were up hours before the sun had even thought about making an appearance, and were at the distribution office as the sky began to lighten. They stood on the street corners, sleeves pulled down, collars turned up, hawking the headlines. One newsie was particularly well covered. A hat covered the short, course, curly black hair. A scarf covered much of the face, leaving only the bright brown eyes showing. The collar on a blue shirt was buttoned all the way up, covering the neck. Gloves covered hands and socks covered feet. The people passing didn't notice anything different about this young newsie. Some bought papers, others did not. The newsie was glad it wasn't warm out so the layers of clothing could be worn. Usually the newsie couldn't sell a pape. When you're a black girl working a white boy's job, people don't appreciate it.

She was walking back to the lodging house. This was the first piece of information he got. The only solid information he got. A boy came running into his room, not bothering to knock. This was serious. "Brownie… Brownie's hurt," the boy gasped, trying to catch his breath. "Where? How bad?" he asked, his anger at the boy gone. One of his newsies was hurt. "Stabbed, alley by da docks" the boy panted, getting his breathing closer to normal. He swore and said, "Ya did good Sprint." The young boy looked at him, glowing with the praise. He didn't have time to smile at the child. One of his newsies was hurt. He grabbed his cane and ran out the door, ran to the docks.

Flashback

"_I wanna be a newsie," a boy said. He looked at this boy and realized he wasn't a boy at all. "No goils in Brooklyn," was all he said. He turned, thinking the matter was closed. The girl grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. "I decide where I woik. Teach me how ta be a newsie," she said, a threat in her voice. He shook his head and said, "Teach your self. Brooklyn don't take crap from nobody." She got right up in his face and said, "I ain't nobody. I'se a person, jus' like you'se. Loin (learn) dat fast or you'se ain't gonna have dat purty face no more." He nodded, a grin on his face. This girl wasn't going to take crap from anybody. Not because she's a girl, not because she's black. He liked that about her. _

_End Flashback_

He swore again when he saw her. "You look bad," he said. "Yeah, I guess I do," she said, tears rolling down her face. No banter, no comeback? She was hurt badly, he could tell by her actions, although the pool of blood at her side might've given him a hint. As he held his shirt to her side, applying pressure and praying for the bleeding to stop, another memory overwhelmed him.

_Flashback_

_It was a cool day, the sun was bright and shining. The girl who had joined the Brookies several month ago was a brilliant newsie. No one bought from her. She looked like a boy with short-cropped hair, a sailor's mouth and tough muscles. No one bought from her because she was black. Some spat at her, some brushed by, some herded children away like she was dangerous. She got into more fights then the rest of the Brookies combined. The first night she walked in bloody, tear stains down her cheeks and clothing ripped, he had stared. "What!" she had yelled, angered. "You look bad," he stated. "Yes, I do! Some guy decided to beat me up 'cause I'm black. Den once he figures out I'm a goil he tries to 'ave 'is way wid me acause he figgred dat I was black, I didn' feel nothin'," she ranted. He didn't answer and she spoke to the wall, saying, "My blood runs red too." "What?" he askes, confused. She still looks at the wall as she says,"When I cry, I'm in pain. I cry tears, same as you. When I feel or taste or smell or look at somethin', I feel or taste or smell or look same as you. When I get hit, it hoits. When I bleed, I bleed blood too. Some people don' get dat." "But I do," he said looking her in the eyes. "He didn' hoit ya too bad, did 'e?" She shook her head, he knew she had held him off. He gathered her into a tight embrace, curing the men who hurt her, who hurt anyone because of their looks. They were the worst type of people; those who committed racial hate crimes._

_End Flashback_

He boiled with anger at the prejudices of some people. They could hurt people and not care who they were, what they felt because they looked different. He stopped trying to stem the flow of blood, there was really no point. He took her, cradled her in his arms. "Brownie…" he started, murmuring his words. "You'se a brilliant goil. You'se da best newsie in Brooklyn, an' da prettiest ta boot." She laughed weakly at that and he continued, saying, "You'se my best friend. I dunno what I'm gonna do wid out ya." "We hadda good run, didn' we?" she asked, smiling into his face. "Yeah, we did." "Tell everyone I'm gonna miss 'um, k?" "'m k." Her breathing slowed and his eyes began to fill with tears. "It didn' hoit. Jus' like getting' hit by a pilla. Only dis was one loaded pilla," she said, startling him. She reached an arm up, and caressed his face. "Don' be afraid ta love Spot," she said, rather randomly, "'Cause if ya are, den crap like dis happens and ya never get ta love 'em anyways. Kiss a goil for me Spot. Kiss 'er an' be happy." He leaned down and kissed her. "Dat was easy," he said with a rough voice, eyes glistening with tears and a smirk on his face. She smiled and then died. He picked up her body and carried her though the streets of Brooklyn, every newsie knowing that a wonderful person had died, knowing that Spot would never be the same again.

Funeral, Several Days Later

The day dawned bright and cold. The sane residents of New York were still tucked in their warm beds and weren't planing on getting out anytime soon. The working class were just leaving their homes, kissing their wives on the cheek and running to get to the warm buildings that they worked in. The poor in the alleys were doing what they did all night- namely shiver and beg for food or money. The newsies were up hours before the sun had even thought about making an appearance, and were at the distribution office as the sky began to lighten. They stood on the street corners, sleeves pulled down, collars turned up, hawking the headlines. One newsie was particularly well covered. A hat covered the short, course, curly black hair. A scarf covered much of the face, leaving only the bright brown eyes showing. The collar on a blue shirt was buttoned all the way up, covering the neck. Gloves covered hands and socks covered feet. Spot looked her over one more time before closing the lid to her casket. The leaders of all the burrows, all except for Brooklyn, lowered her into the ground. He looked on, just past her headstone. If he squinted just right he could see her dancing like she had when she thought no one was watching. The wind rustled in the trees, whispering goodbye, goodbye. Spot left, a phantom in his eyes, his heart in the freshly covered grave. When someone like her comes into a life, it is changed irrevocably. She left a wall of ice, protecting the raw bud of a new heart deep in Spot's chest. If someone was willing to melt the ice then the sweetest, most caring boy in the world would be there, waiting. She has to be patient and he has to trust her. Deep down, he knows that he had a promise to keep. He has to live again for Brownie, to keep her memory alive, to keep her spirit alive. He didn't think he could ever love again. But for Brownie? For Brownie he was willing to try anything.

Read and Review!


End file.
